Joust for Love
by 67OtakuGirl24X3
Summary: England, or Arthur Kirkland, had always had a passionate interest in jousting. Even after retiring from participating himself, a certain French jouster kept his interest alive, and led him to having certain other feelings... Feelings that could cost him his reputation, and his life.
1. Chapter 1

Ah, the jousting tournament. It was an event England, currently a teenager, had adored since he was just a tiny child. The grace of the horses… The shine of the knights' armor… The loud clash of lance against shield… The roar of the crowd… It was all ecstasy. His passion was so strong, in fact, that the moment he grew capable enough, he entered himself in the tournaments.

It was not unheard of to have countries participating in their own jousts. Although it was true that most nations preferred to watch the action as opposed to being part of it, and sent their best knights to partake, others- such as the audacious young England- chose to participate themselves.

Upon his debut, Arthur Kirkland (if nations were to contribute, they were to make it apparent that they were average knights, not representations of countries) was immediately labeled the underdog. None of the spectators were aware that he had in actuality been around for centuries; to their eyes, he was a young man, not even 20 years old. Little did they know of his amazing stamina and dedication- traits that would lead him to be a feared pirate king later in life. This was illustrated in his first tournament, when he managed to triumph as dominant over every one of his opposing knights.

His reputation skyrocketed from there. Arthur never lost; in fact, some opponents would toss themselves off their horse, knowing before the man-to-man combat even began that they were to be beaten. Such fame could only last for so long, however. Eventually, the day came that his defeat would show its head.

It was only natural that someone of such often victory would become at least a little cocky. Arthur would trot into the arena, sitting high on his black-as-night stallion, waving casually at his boisterous admirers with a slight smirk on his face. His youthful appearance left the ladies swooning and the lords envious, yet striking fear and a dash of shame into the other knights. Yet this time, for once… he was shown up.

They rode in one after the other, almost as if they were all representing the same kingdom. This was obviously not true, seeing the colors they wore: black and white; yellow and red; red, white, and blue. The first knight's level of arrogance made Arthur appear meek; he rode on a sleek horse whiter than snow, complimenting the silver-blonde shade of his rider's hair. A toothy smirk as wide as the ocean was set beneath a pair of scarlet eyes. The second knight shone with a very likable aura, yet at the same time he didn't come across as someone you could easily pull one over on. His skin was tan, eyes were like sparkling emeralds, smile was bright, and hair was the same dark chestnut color of his mount.

The last rider would have even caught the eye of a blind man. His horse was a mystifying shade of gray, so beautifully light that it almost seemed to be a spirit. The unmistakable pride with which it trotted still didn't match its rider's. He held his head even higher than the first rider's, his shoulder length blonde hill flowing about his shoulders like an angelic glow surrounded his head. His smile was absolutely hypnotizing, prideful, arrogant, and flirtatious all at once. At the sight of him, Arthur's confident grin faltered.

"…And representing the kingdom of France, lord Francis Bonnefoy," the hosting king's leading lord had announced. _Francis Bonnefoy… _The name echoed about Arthur's head. He told himself this wonderstruck feeling was a result of being faced with a new challenger; any other reason- anything _romantic- _would result in severe punishment: homosexuality was most frowned upon.

The tournament proceeded as usual. There was, however, a notable difference; it was obvious to anyone that these three new knights- Gilbert of Prussia, Antonio of Spain, and Francis of France- were not unfriendly with each other. Whenever one of them scored a point for their country, the others' negative reactions weren't the usual ones of knights growing gradually closer to defeat; on the contrary, they were quite childish. They would stick their tongues out and boo, grinning and then calling something positive like "Good shot." When it got down to the man-to-man combat, they'd tease each other, pretending to lunge with their swords just to unnecessarily get the other on edge. They treated the whole thing like a silly game when their opponent was one of the others.

However, if they were facing someone apart from the trio, it was a whole different story. Gilbert was obviously trying to keep a lid on brutality, coming perhaps too close to incapacitating his opponent. Antonio fought with the air of a freedom fighter, awe-striking and fiery. Francis was both graceful and strong, his movements liquid and perfect.

For Arthur, this was most intimidating.

When the end of the games came around, it was Arthur against Gilbert. He'd come this far; Arthur's exhilaration was pulsing throughout his body. He could do this, he knew he could… Inhaling deeply, he pulled his helmet down over his face, cracked his neck, and readied his lance. On his command, his horse streaked across the arena, Gilbert bolting from the opposite direction…

It happened far too quickly for Arthur's liking. For the spectators, it was something simple, yet for Arthur, it was a devastation. All that had happened was Gilbert's lance glazed Arthur's shield, sending a few sparks sprinkling to the ground below. Arthur, however, had not been counting on being hit so soon, and this tiny touch was enough to catch him completely off-guard. He lost his stature on his horse, stumbled, and rolled to the ground with a clatter, his helmet tumbling off right with him. Only a quarter of the audience cheered; the rest made sounds of shame and surprise. Gilbert smirked and hopped off his own mount, tossing his helmet to the side and holding his hand out for one of his men to provide him with a weapon.

Arthur was still in a state of shock as a sword was pressed into his hand. How had he been knocked off so quickly? He'd only been the first to fall one time before, and even then it had taken a few strikes to get him down. No matter… That was in the past; now was the present. He swung his sword.

The two men were almost even in both build and experience, though appearance wise Gilbert had a good 5 years on Arthur. The elder matched every single one of Arthur's swings, the din of their constantly clashing swords reverberating throughout the arena. Arthur's teeth were clenched tightly, his thick eyebrows furrowed deeply in frustration; Gilbert wore the same smirk he had entered with, though with a deal more wildness this time around. Sweat poured down both of their faces, and both of their muscles were tense, yet Gilbert somehow seemed much more relaxed. _He _knew how this battle was going to end.

_Clash, clash, bang, slice, bang. _Even the din of the screaming crowd couldn't drown out the two men's sword fight. With what sounded like a war cry, Gilbert channeled every ounce of his strength into one swing. With a clang so loud it could easily have deafened anyone nearby, Arthur's sword flew feet in the air, spinning out of control until it landed yards away. The force of the impact knocked Arthur himself back, gasping for air with wide eyes. Heart beating rapidly, he crawled backwards, waiting for one of his men to supply him with a new weapon to defend himself with, but it was too late.

The air sharply left Arthur as a heavy foot smashed down onto his chest. The audience gasped; this was a little too brutal than was allowed. Still, Arthur attempted to squirm away, not yet ready to give in. He could win… He always won… He _needed _to win… He was so blinded by adrenaline that Arthur didn't even take note of the fact that Gilbert was raising his sword, ready to deliver an illegal strike.

The crowd was going insane. Arthur was a fan favorite; how dare some haughty new contestant treat him like he was so inferior?! Nonetheless, their chants didn't reach the English nation… Yet one screamed demand did: "Give up, you _sot! _Being so stubborn will cost you your honor AND your life!" Something about the tone of that wild French accent made Arthur freeze. His eyes trailed off to the side where Francis Bonnefoy stood in the same arch through which the horses had exited, his eyes wide and frantic, staring directly at Arthur. Gilbert's muscles tensed, ready to slice Arthur's throat, when a shaky exhale of breath made him pause.

"I surrender," Arthur whispered. Gilbert's scarlet eyes blinked; he hadn't actually expected the Englishman to give in. Still, rules were rules, so the Prussian dropped his sword and stepped back. At first, the crowd shouted nothing but boos… But then a murmur seemed to skip around them, until a tiny collection of applause spread like a plague and nearly everyone was cheering wildly. With a broad grin, Gilbert made his way to center stage and accepted the praise.

Arthur, meanwhile, tried to slink off without being noticed. How did he, Arthur Kirkland, lose so easily… The nation of England did _not _lose… His absent gaze drifted toward Francis and Antonio, just a few steps away from standing in the arena themselves. Antonio was whooping and clapping passionately as if it had been he who had one; Francis, on the other hand, clapped as well, yet his expression was dazed with a dash of poignancy. For a moment, his eyes met Arthur's, blue into green, and an unwelcome feeling sprung up inside of Arthur. His breath caught the moment he identified the emotion.

Oh, no.

* * *

**~Author's Note~**

_First off, let me apologize for how rushed the first two chapters are. Originally, they were one big chapter, and this was just a one-shot. However, thanks to KiwiFruit07 I decided I was going to expand this into a short story._

_Anyway. I was inspired to write this because last night, I went to Medieval Times (if you ever get the chance, I recommend you check them out- it was phenomenal) and there was a joust. Everyone is assigned a knight to root for, and I automatically fell in love with my knight… Seeing as the jousts were popular in England, I couldn't help but picturing England being so into them and falling in love with a knight. Seeing as jousting was so chivalric, and it was a European thing, I naturally decided that knight would be France. (the idea to include the BTT sparked from the fact that at the tournament I went to, there was a knight of the Prussian flag's colors, a knight of the Spanish flag's, and a flamboyant blue one that could easily be France.)_

_Two more things to apologize for: the cheesy title, and any inaccuracies throughout this story. I did pretty minimal research._


	2. Chapter 2

England was too humiliated by his defeat to return as a challenger in the jousts. He instead selected his best knights to represent him. Still, his love for the sport never died down, so he did continue to attend the games (though he wore a hood to hide his face). He told himself over and over that his sole reason for coming was to watch the spectacle, yet a voice inside his head insisted the true purpose was to watch that one French knight.

Although Gilbert had won in the tournament against Arthur, that was the only time. Francis proceeded to win a majority of the following matches, developing a winning streak almost as impressive as Arthur's. The two nations seemed to be pretty close in age, actually, though Arthur was still the one noted for his youth. But while Arthur was mostly admired for his feats despite being so young, Francis's fame revolved around his grace. He seemed to float around the arena, his actions forceful yet somehow gentle at the same time. His style was unmatchable, and even the princess seemed to have her eye on him.

There was no point in denying it: England did, too.

It was routine for knights to toss flowers into the audience between each game. Antonio became known for the flourished carnations he would always throw. England, however, was only interested in Francis's trademark roses. The French nation would kiss each individual blossom before flinging them toward the crowd, and England would always keep his fingers crossed that one would come his way. It did, once, and he managed to slip it in his cloak without being noticed. Another time, after a long and hard day, he plucked one out of a little girl's hands on the way out of the arena. Some nights, when he was under the influence of some beer, he would bring the flower to his lips and giggle over the fact that France's mouth had previously touched it as well.

A fateful day occurred over the summer, about 4 months after England's hesitant affection for France surfaced. Francis was approaching his thirtieth win- a record. England had managed to score front row seating for the event, and the moment the French knight appeared on his mist colored steed, England wasn't the only one standing to cheer.

The tournament was going nearly identical to the most recent ones. Francis's spear hit the target dead center when his horse galloped toward it; his lance went through the suspended ring with ease; at least one person surrendered to him before he even had a chance to grab a weapon. This time, however, there was a new element to add to the mix: a ruthless, skilled new knight representing Hungary (Hungary herself wanted to participate, but obviously was turned down because she was a woman). He perfectly met all of Francis's moves, until he was his final opponent.

It was obvious that this was going to be an interesting fight from the moment Francis went rolling off his horse. Without even changing expression, the Hungarian knight stood on his horse with impeccable balance, jumping to the ground and landing perfectly safely. Not a trace of fear was present on Francis's face; he simply looked impressed.

As usual, England found his eyes glued to Francis's face. It was just so perfect: the baby blue color of his eyes, which danced with countless emotions; the slight stubbles of facial hair sprouting on his chin; his thin eyebrows, furrowed in effort; his ever-present determined smirk; even the set of his jaw was perfect. England knew he shouldn't be having such thoughts about another man, but it couldn't be helped. Besides, it wasn't like he planned to act on these feelings…. Still, he knew it would be best to distract himself, so he instead focused on Francis's opponent for once.

For whatever reason, the longer England watched this man, he was struck with a sense of familiarity. Maybe it was that his lightning-quick, powerful fighting style was similar to one of Francis's previous opponents… Or perhaps Arthur had fought him himself. No, no, that wasn't it… Maybe the way that he eerily never changed expressions reminded him of some other nation…? That could easily be true, yet that still didn't feel right.

Realization dawned on England so abruptly that he literally felt like his heart had stopped. That couldn't be right, his imagination was surely playing tricks on him… Gulping, England ventured to imagine the Hungarian knight with a scowl and a full beard. The results were undeniable: he had seen this man's face on a Wanted poster at his favorite, though unpopular, pub. He was wanted for escaping prison; his charge had been the repeated murders of people that had been quite admired in society….

People like Francis.

Now England's heart was racing. There was no possible way this was the same man… Surely someone would have noticed? Then again, the furious determination blazing in his eyes and strength he put into his lunges did match that of someone with a motivation to kill…

It happened so quickly that it took the crowd a moment to realize what had happened. The Hungarian knight abandoned his sword while ducking beneath Francis's own blade, and rolled out of the way to grab an axe from the array of weapons off to the side. The natural thing for Francis to do was pursue his opponent, which he did… Only to be struck down by the wooden handle of the axe.

"_Francis!" _England gasped, tightly gripping the railing that kept him from falling into the arena. When the Hungarian exchanged his new weapon for his old sword, however, the railing did little to keep England away.

No thoughts were registering in his brain except that a murderer was holding a sword above Francis Bonnefoy's throat, ready to decapitate his head, and nobody was going to stop him. Common sense forgotten and feeling like time had slowed down, England threw himself into the arena, sprinting in the direction of the two fighters. He grabbed a morning star- it had been his favorite weapon when he didn't have access to a sword- and, with all the accuracy he could muster, wrapped its chain around the blade of the sword seconds before it would have sliced through Francis's neck. With a sharp tug, he disarmed the Hungarian.

Time seemed to progress normally again the moment the sword clattered out of the knight's hands. The crowd was now in an uproar, all of the knights' men rushing onto the field. England's head whipped up… and his hood fell down. The entire audience seemed to gasp in unison, and murmurs of "Arthur Kirkland!" arose from all sides.

England looked around frantically, backing toward the far wall as soldiers flooded into the arena. Were all of these knights really necessary just to get one ex-jouster off the field…?! To England's shock, however, they all filtered around him, and instead surrounded the Hungarian knight. He was vaguely aware of the king shouting from his place in the stands, "The messenger was right! Here is the escaped murderer!" So England hadn't been the only one to see the resemblance…

Everything turned to chaos. People were screaming, women were fainting, families were trying to make their way toward the exit, some were even still trying to get a glimpse at Arthur. Amongst all the bedlam, next to no one noticed a certain red, white, and blue clad Frenchman grab England by the wrist and dash through the alley where the knights entered from.

"Arthur Kirkland, you saved my life," Francis breathed once they were away from everyone, releasing England's hand. A blush rose to his face; was he actually alone with the man he'd fallen further and further in love with, just by watching him joust?

"…England. You can call me England, France," he choked out. France chuckled slightly.

"_Désolé,_ we haven't interacted as countries since we were children. I'm used to the jouster you." What? The two of them had interacted as children? This was not something England had remembered… Then again, a vast majority of his childhood was either blurry or nonexistent in his memory.

"Yes, well…. You did brilliantly today," he murmured, avoiding meeting France's gaze. If he did, he feared he'd do something he'd regret. "You, always do brilliantly."

A slight laugh left France's lips. "I'm glad to hear that I have a fan, but _you're _the one who put his life and shame in danger just to save me." He tweaked England's chin affectionately, making the shorter nation's face glow scarlet. "Is there anything I can do to repay you?"

It was silent for a moment as England sorted out his priorities. Would he really risk caving to his desires? "…Nothing that wouldn't require being punished."

A mischievous sort of fondness danced across France's eyes. "Nobody will know if we make it quick, _cher."_

England couldn't take it. He'd watched France for too long, felt too many forbidden things for him, to turn this opportunity down… Pressing his hands against the Frenchman's cheeks, heart beating as wildly as it used to when he faced his final jousting opponent, England closed his eyes and kissed him right on the mouth.

"Lord Bonnefoy, what is _this?" _Both nations froze at the sound of the king's leading lord, a mere few feet down the hall. England's heart stopped; this man was extremely close to the king, so there was no doubt he would tell him that he stumbled upon these two men being affectionate with each other. That would mean the Pear of Anguish for them both… Images of the brutal torture device flooded through England's mind, and his imagination even provided him with a brief pain where the contraption would be inserted for homosexual men.

Though England couldn't bring himself to look in his direction, France spared him a slight glance. "Follow my lead," France whispered to England so quietly that England wasn't sure he had even said it. France was already rigid, so it looked perfectly natural when he shoved England away. "_Mon dieu, _how many mugs of gin could you possibly have had?"

It took but a second for England to catch on. "Well, see… Two? T-twelve. Seven, six? Six," he answered in an airy tone, nodding a little too sharply. Francis shook his head, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"You really let yourself go since you quit jousting…" he muttered in disgust. England's jaw dropped.

"Jousting? When did I do that?" He looked over his shoulder. "Did I do that today? Wow, bloody amazing!" He applauded slowly, beaming at France. France offered him a fake smile, then turned to the leading lord with an expression that clearly read, "Can you believe this man?" Sighing, the lord placed a hand on Francis's shoulder, aimed a sympathetic look at Arthur, and jogged to join the other soldiers in the arena.

Now that was close. "I would love to get to know you more, England," France indicated quietly the moment he was gone, regaining a normal stance. England immediately erased his phony grin, his eyes widening slightly. "How about you and I meet at the pub around the corner from here, this time tomorrow, and if I deem it necessary… We head back to my home."

Could this actually be happening? Surely this was a dream… It would be more logical if Francis said he was giving up jousting forever and wanted Arthur to take his identity and title. Still, he decided it would be best to answer as if this situation was real. "…I would love that."

Flashing his trademark smile, France gave England the same wink he would always aim at the young women squealing his name in the stands before he tossed a rose their way. "_Magnifique."_

* * *

**~Author's Note~**

_I'm sure some of you are wondering what "the Pear of Anguish" is. Well, it was something I learned about in this little gallery at Medieval Times about torture devices… All I can say is, Google it._

_And the little bit about throwing flowers? Well, the knights at Medieval Times did throw flowers into the audience (the knight I was in loooove with threw one RIGHT. AT. ME! I still have it~). The only ones I noticed were roses and carnations, too. :3_


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a long time since England visited the pub France invited him to. Ever since he entered the world of jousting then suddenly exited it, he knew it was too dangerous to show his face in somewhere so public. So he stuck to the dingy little pub around the corner. Yes, their beer was a little warm, and there were far too many cobwebs on the ceiling, but it was just the type of ostracized location that someone who didn't want to be seen was looking for.

As a result, England was left with quite some difficulty involving when he planned to meet France there. Too early could be troublesome; it was to be expected to find suspicious, hood-bearing characters sitting inside the pub, yet if they lingered outside too long, any officials walking by would mean questioning. Still, showing up too late would make him seem careless. In the end, he made a compromise with himself and decided to show up at the exact time they had agreed on.

Keeping his head down and hood pulled tight, England darted through the streets with care to not bump into anyone. He was on edge to begin with, but the moment he turned the corner simultaneously to a taller figure wearing a hooded cloak similar to his, every muscle in his body went tense. If this man was looking for trouble, England didn't want any part of it. Nothing could distract him from his meeting with France…

England froze as the figure stepped around a group of people just to get closer to him. There was a mere foot between them now; England was regretting leaving his dagger at home. Would he risk being accused of witchcraft by casting a quick dark spell on this stranger? He was about to pop the stranger in the jaw and bolt inside the pub when the taller man stepped right up to England, pulling his own hood back slightly… revealing a pair of baby blue eyes above a gentle smile and stubble of facial hair. "It's _moi," _he whispered.

Relief flooded over England like a wave. He immediately relaxed and nodded in acknowledgement, following the Frenchman inside. The tavern was rather crowded, with only a few empty tables and no seats available at the bar. Still, there was a convenient table for two off in a private corner; seeing as France nodded casually at the bartender, who nodded right back with a knowing sort of grin, England felt like the table's placement wasn't just a coincidence.

"So, Arthur… Tell me about yourself." France began once they were seated. He kept his voice down; obviously in case anyone overheard and thought they were lovers. Of course, they weren't…. Not yet at least.

"Well what would you like to know?" England murmured, adjusting his hood. He wasn't quite sure if it was reassuring or concerning that they weren't the only citizens in the bar dressed in such suspicious attire.

"_Je ne sais pas… _Everything." France shrugged. "Tell me about your family, for starters."

Oh, what a topic that was. England gave a brief nod to his head. "Let's see. I don't remember my mother… My father's been married multiple times. I have four brothers, though we all only share my father… One of them has a twin sister, as well. I wouldn't be surprised at all if I end up with more half or step-siblings in the future," he explained.

"You're a lucky one…" France smiled sadly down at the table. "I don't have anyone. It's just _moi." _

England blink, sympathy springing into the ever-swirling mixture of feelings he felt for the Frenchman. Before he could comment in any way, a tavern wench appeared and asked them for what drinks they'd like. France ordered a glass of wine; afraid of the boisterous persona England sometimes put on under the influence of alcohol, he played it safe and ordered a water. "Not a drinker, Artie?" France questioned.

"Oh, no, I am… But-"

"Then embrace it! Get him a beer, _s'il vous plait," _France interrupted. Not giving England a chance to interject, the wench nodded and swept off to fetch their beverages. Honestly, England couldn't complain. He would simply have to restrain himself from drinking too much and doing something undesirable in front of the man he was smitten with. "Now let's see, what else interests me about Arthur Kirkland…." France made sure to keep his voice down there- he knew peoples' ears would perk up at the sound of a name that led to gossip. "When did you gain an interest in jousting?"

England opened his mouth to respond immediately, yet he lost what he had to say. He planned on answering "Since I was a young boy," but was that actually when the passion had sparked? He honestly couldn't remember when it started; he had just been awestruck with the sport for as long as he could remember. So that's what he told France.

An odd combination of relief and curiosity flooded over France's expression. "Ah, I see… I understand. Being around for centuries makes it hard to remember the origin of things, _oui?"_

That made England pause. He had always found it peculiar that his childhood was so unclear, so absent in his memory… But perhaps even nations didn't have a limitless memory span. Perhaps he simply could not remember because it was not possible. "…Yes. Yes, it does."

The men were spared of an awkward silence when their server returned, carrying both of their beverages. England nodded his gratitude while France practically purred "_Merci beaucoup" _with a wink. The wench just blushed slightly, used to the invading attention of the tavern's drunken customers, and swept off in a hurry. France immediately took a delicate sip of wine; England hesitated before bringing his beer mug up to his lips.

"Afraid of getting drunk, _mon ami?" _France broke the silence that had once again begun to settle over them. A teasing smirk appeared on his lips. "Afraid of letting some hidden feelings slip whilst intoxicated?" A light blush brushed across England's face, which he attempted to hide behind the rim of his mug. He muttered something incomprehensible; France tilted his head. "What _is _your opinion on me?" he asked curiously.

England hesitated to answer. It wasn't like he could confess his undeniable love; they were in public. "…You're an inspirational man, and I see you fondly," he murmured truthfully. A soft smile seeped into France's expression.

"How kind of you. I suppose my attitude toward you is the same…" He lowered his voice to an unintentionally seductive whisper. "If not stronger." England coughed heavily, taking a larger gulp of beer than he would have intended. When he slammed the mug against the table, refusing to meet France's gaze, he realized that he had already consumed half the beverage. That would be where he drew the line, if he didn't plan on doing anything he regretted….

By the time the wench took their glasses away, both were empty. Oh, no.

The remainder of the night was a fog in England's mind, as if it had all been a dream. Yet it was perfectly real; all too real. After draining the last drop of beer from his mug, England had begun to gradually slip out of reality. Not quite being able to stand on his own, France helped him to his feet, paid the bartender, and escorted England out to the street. Currently, France was residing in a small yet cozy cottage just around the corner of the pub.

It felt as if the moment England stepped food onto the road, he was already entering France's residence. The minutes seemed like they had spun away rapidly; surely they had not maneuvered their way through the crowd of the darkening street so soon? Upon their arrival in France's quarters, France immediately ushered a dazed England inside, glanced about to make sure he hadn't been followed (there was always that handful of crazed fans that could recognize him even beneath a hood), and locked the door behind them.

"D'you live here?" England managed to ask. Up until then, his head had been spinning too badly for him to utter anything but the occasional groan.

"Temporarily, _oui… _It's much unlike the castle I grew up in, but I like the privacy," he replied, as if England was still sober. He chuckled fondly as the other nation stumbled into a bookshelf, narrowing his eyes at it as if it had run into him, not the other way around. France gently took his hand and led him to the bed off in the farthest corner of the cottage, where he plopped down with a grunt; he sat lightly beside him. "Now tell me, _Angleterre… _What is it that you really feel about _moi."_

England was not yet drunk enough to have lost _all _common sense. He furrowed his eyebrows. "I don't believe that would be in my," he hiccupped, "best interest."

A sad while also flirtatious smile appeared on France's mouth. "Come now, you have nothing to fear… It is just the two of us." He placed his hand on England's cheek, but the latter stubbornly shook off his touch. France sighed slightly. "Fine, I will tell you _my _opinion first. Arthur Kirkland…" France pressed their foreheads together, lightly closing his eyes. "_Je t'aime." _

The simple sound of those words sent a shuddering chill throughout England's body, starting in his chest, reverberating around his stomach, and lingering at the tip of his spine. How? How was this possible? So many people in the world, so many admirers, and Francis Bonnefoy was in love with _him? _No, no, this must have been some drunken fantasy. That made the most sense…. And that's the theory England stuck to, his psyche refusing to offer any other possibility. So he decided to take a risk.

"I love you too," he breathed, though the sentence was barely lucid with the combination of his steadily slurring speech and that he mashed his lips against Francis's before he got the entire sentence out. France, still in a perfectly intelligible state of mind due to his developed tolerance of wine's usual effects, did not hesitate to return the kiss, holding England in place by his cheeks. Their mouths parted for a moment in order for them to draw in air, though they quickly dove back in with double the passion. France did not even mind the heavy taste of beer on his lover's mouth.

Amidst the fervor, France traced his tongue across where the Englishman's lips met. England had heard of this type of kissing; he had heard some of his men boasting about doing so with French girls that had passed through the kingdom. His brain was too fuzzy to process any comprehensible thoughts, so it was by mere instinct that he granted France access to the inside of his mouth. It was an odd, revolting action at first, but England soon fell victim and their tongues were fighting for dominance while his hands felt France's chest up and down.

It had not even fazed England when France gently pressed him backwards so that England lay on his back while he leaned over him on hands and knees. However, when France gradually led himself downward so that their bodies were pressed together, England went rigid and broke their chain of rapid fire kissing. "What is it, _mon amour?"_ France murmured. England whimpered in response; it took but a moment for France to detect what was irking him. With a smirk, France immediately set to work relieving him.

He started by shedding them of their cloaks, which they perhaps should have upon entering the cottage anyway. His expert hands made quick work of the rope tied around England's tunic; he was used to removing dresses, but taking off a man's clothes was not any more difficult. In a mere minute, a pile of discarded clothing items had gathered on the floor and both men were purely naked. England was too intoxicated, and too convinced that this was all a fantasy, to protest. In fact, the moment France had kicked the pants off his own ankles, England sat back against the pillows, making himself perfectly vulnerable. Just as France planned.

Now, France was no virgin; however, he had never had sex with another man. Still, a man as romantic as himself knew exactly how to perform in the spur of the moment. He crawled over to England, trailing one hand down the Englishman's cheek while the other slowly made its way south. The fuzziness of England's mind was making him start to drift off due to the lack of action in the past few moments; he was jolted wide awake with a sharp gasp as France grasped his member. His fingertips stroked its tip, causing England to shudder and gulp.

With his free hand, France brought his pointer and middle fingers up to England's lips and tapped until he bewilderedly opened his mouth. "Suck," France instructed under his breath. England obeyed, too overwhelmed by the feeling of France beginning to pump the heel of his palm against England's arousal to question the Frenchman. The hand working at England's lower regions finally rested, making England sigh shakily as France pulled his saliva-coated fingers out of England's mouth. He traced around the head of England's erection before slipping his pointer finger in, resulting in a loud, high pitched gasp from his lover.

Eyes shut tightly, England bit his lip so hard that he nearly drew blood as France dared to slip his second moistened finger inside of him, spreading the fingers apart in a V shape so as to open England up. France let his hand linger there for a moment, meanwhile leaning forward and delivering love bites to the place where England's jaw met his neck. He procrastinated even further by trailing his tongue across England's chest and peppering little kisses between his legs, then decided it was time; after all, at this point he was aroused himself.

France finally slid his fingers out of England, causing a moan to rise out of the man's throat, and positioned his own erected member above England's opening. Wiping his dampened fingers across England's cheek then proceeding to kiss down the trail it left, he slipped into England gently yet forcibly enough to make him cry out.

Desperate for a way to escape this new pain, England dug his nails into France's shoulder and wrapped his legs around his back. France thrust against England's southern regions, leisurely at first, then steadily, then so quickly that it would have been in time to a horse's gallop. England found himself riding up against France's thrusts, sending himself nearly as far into the Frenchman as he was in him. His hands made their way into France's long locks of hair, tangling themselves there as he stretched his neck up to plant kisses on his lips. The pain was excruciating, yet it felt _so good… _This thrill, it was something neither man had ever experienced before. Their bodies were soaring, racing; faster and faster, closer and closer, ready to rupture into flames and spiral with triumph… The breaking point was near, one more breath, one last scream, one final burst…

There was a blinding explosion of white, and that was all England could even vaguely remember.

* * *

**_~Author's Note~_**

_And that, m'dears, was my attempt at smut. OTL (this chapter was what made me decide to change the rating to M). I question my abilities to write this type of stuff... :/_

_By the way. England's brothers he was talking about were North Ireland, Wales, Scotland, and Australia, while the sister was Ireland. He jinxed himself by saying he probably would end up with more half-siblings, cuz sometime in his life Sealand's gonna come along. XD_


	4. Chapter 4

Gentle rays of sunlight seeped through the single square window in Francis's cottage, the sounds of shuffling feet, clopping horse hooves, and rolling wagon wheels illustrating an average morning in the town outside. Daytime. England lifted his heavy eyelids, the room coming into view. Ah, how comfortable he felt, enveloped in Francis's warmth… How safe… A light smile played on England's mouth, and he placed a soft kiss to the temple of his sleeping lover.

The peace was shattered quicker than a bolt of lightning. England's lips had not even left Francis's temple when the door was kicked in, all the locks ripped right off the hinges. The abrupt _bang _was followed by the inescapable sound of clanking armor, and tens of soldiers had piled into the little cottage. England was now wide awake. He shot upright, excuses flooding into his brain, yet it was of no use; nothing could pardon why he was naked in bed with another man.

Somehow, Francis managed to stay deeply asleep as the soldiers yanked England to his feet, one man tightly gripping each of his forearms as if he was a rabid madman. With a shove from another soldier's boot clad foot, the nation was sent sprawling out into the street where hundreds more soldiers awaited him. All of them wore identical disgusted scowls. Looking around in a panic, England now saw that instead of daytime, the sky had actually darkened, a midnight-like glow providing the only light.

Heart pounding in his ears, England touched his knees together in attempt to cover himself. However, if what he suspected was true, there would be no need. Sure enough, the lines of armored men divided for a moment, serving as a pathway for a man that had been toward the back. He wore the grimmest expression of them all, murder flashing in his eyes. England's own green orbs widened in terror as they swallowed the image of what the man was carrying. The metal device resembled hedge trimmers in a way, except instead of two blades, there were four sharp prongs coming together in a pear shape.

"Get on the ground, scum," one of the soldiers barked. England's head whipped in the man's direction. Had the situation not been so calamitous, he would have responded with something snippy like "I already _am _on the ground." But his breathing was heavy, his voice was choked, and the end was drawing near. From the corner of his eye, in fact, he swore he saw the Grim Reaper himself, waiting patiently with both bony hands gripping his scythe.

Too horrorstruck to do anything himself, the two soldiers that had dragged him out of the cottage grabbed him by the shoulders, roughly flipping him onto his chest. One gripping a handful of his hair and the other stepping on the backs of his legs, they held him in a position that left his rump sticking in the air. He rolled his eyes as far to the side as he could, unable to keep from the unexplainable desire to watch the approach of the man who was to be his murderer. This soldier was wearing a dark hood, now; had he transformed into the Grim Reaper? No, because instead of a scythe, he held the Pear of Anguish, prongs closed in a point and gradually being brought down upon England…..

With a gasp so heavy it left him coughing, England's eyes sprung open. He was no longer thrown against the stone ground, surrounded by soldiers and encased in darkness; on the contrary, he was lying beneath France's arm just as he had been moments ago, the town's activities mere murmurs in the distance. A dream… It had just been a dream. A horrifying, astonishingly realistic dream. England released an even sigh and slid France's arm off of his chest. This slight motion was enough to stir the Frenchman awake.

"Good morning, _mon amour," _France whispered before a yawn, a small airy smile on his lips. England briefly attempted to return the smile, but was still shaken up and hesitant after his nightmare. There was still all the possibility that it could come true… He needed to work fast.

Without a word, England swept out of bed. He groaned at the immediate sharp ache he met with in his lower back: evidence that not all his most recent memories had been a dream. Which was all the more reason for him to act. Pretending he didn't feel France's casual gaze on him all the while, he smoothed out then yanked on his tunic. He stepped into his trousers, while at the same time pulling one of France's extra quilts off the bed and onto the floor. France raised his eyebrows bemusedly. "Hiding the evidence?"

England nodded sharply, tying his rope belt. "If anyone happens to come by for any reason, they'll think you simply invited me to spend the night. They won't suspect any... suspicious activity," he confirmed. With a blush, he added as an afterthought, "And if they see the state _you're _in, well, I can just say you brought home a maiden. I'll be sure to mention how disgusted I was."

His face only glowed redder when France laughed, sitting up and stretching as if he hadn't committed a heinous deed the night prior. "It's precious, how much thought you put into this."

England huffed, crossing his arms and staring toward the door; if he looked at France's unclothed form any longer, there'd be no chance of denying the fluttery sensation making itself present in his chest. "Don't you have another tournament today?"

France's grin only grew. "Ah, _oui. _I do."

The entire time France got dressed, England stared out the cottage window. He did not relax until 15 minutes passed without spotting a single soldier. Only then did he loosen up the slightest bit.

Upon France's insistence, England did not wear his hood to this joust. He reasoned that word of his heroic act at the previous event spread like wildfire throughout the kingdom, so people would be looking out for him even though this tournament was at a different location. In that case, why not let his presence be known? This was not something England was exactly eager to do; as a result, they met the compromise that if he did not wear his hood in the arena, he would on the way there, and keep a reasonable distance behind the Frenchman so it didn't look like they were riding together. Consequently, although they journeyed down to the stables together, England gave France a good 5 minute head start.

Once in the stands, England made it a point to keep his head down and blend in with the crowd. He procrastinated removing his hood as long as possible; in fact, he did not take it down until he found his spot, in the second-to-first row behind a man much taller than him. Still, he made sure to find a window once the games began: the experience of yet another side of the passionate Frenchman left his yearn to watch him joust stronger than ever.

There was nothing like a good tournament to get Arthur back onboard with his normal self. The trio of Francis, Antonio, and Gilbert was participating again, which always made for a glorious show. One of the immediate highlights was when Gilbert was busy waving at a particularly attractive group of women and didn't realize he should have already commanded his horse to stop, and ended up doing so too suddenly and almost falling headlong into the dirt below. It set the lighthearted atmosphere of what was sure to be a wonderful game.

As usual, Francis came out with his small bouquet of roses after the first contest. This time, however, it was not mere luck that sent one of the blossoms flying precisely in Arthur's direction (although Francis made sure not to look in the direction he flicked his wrist so as to make it seem like he had no particular aim). Arthur's heart leaped at the sight of the flower falling in his direction and reached for it mostly on pure instinct. He caught it by the stem in both hands and immediately lightened his grip on the rose, taking care not to crush it.

The soft, content smile on his face melted, though, as he caught sight of a devastated expression appearing on the face of the tiny girl standing beside him. He froze, turning his gaze toward her, and felt his heart drop back down and shatter as he noted the tears welling up in the child's pleading eyes. With an inner sigh, Arthur forced the smile back on his lips, and handed the blossom to the girl. Her tears seemed to vanish and her face lit up; she deeply inhaled the rose's petals, aiming an appreciative nod Arthur's why. A woman placed a hand on the child's shoulder.

"Thank you, s-" The girl's mother paused midsentence, her eyes bulging. "Arthur Kirkland!" she whispered in disbelief. She nudged her husband, who took sight of him and also murmured his name. This chain continued down the line of the crowd, then up and over until the name "Arthur Kirkland" seemed to be trickling out of every spectator's lips and hundreds of pairs of eyes flickered over to where the ex-jouster stood. Gulping and wishing he could shrink down to nothing, Arthur pulled his hood back over his head. So much for his and Francis's compromise.

Thankfully, the next round of the tournament was enough to unglue everyone's eyes from Arthur's form. It was much more civilized than the one with Francis and the escaped Hungarian prisoner: the hand-to-hand combat was between Antonio and Gilbert, both of whom wanted to leave victorious yet also would not be completely crushed if the other won. After being disarmed eight times, Gilbert decided to surrender; there were but a few boos, for most people were content with the Spaniard's victory. Arthur was one of them; though he would have preferred Francis to win, of course, he was at least glad the man that had shamed him out of participating had lost as well.

On their way to the stables, France and England had decided to meet up for at least a little while after the tournament. Naturally, this caused Arthur to head down to where the knights exited after the crowd filed out, expecting Francis to meet him there. He did…. along with Gilbert and Antonio. Before Arthur could find any means of backing out, Gilbert marched right up to him. "Well, well, well. If it isn't _Artie Kirkland," _he practically taunted, chin stuck high and a smirk ever present on his face.

"…Please, just call me England," Arthur muttered, glancing away to avoid Gilbert's cocky gaze.

"In that case, call me Prussia," Gilbert decided, crossing his arms proudly. Antonio grinned. "Call me Spain!" he insisted. Francis wacked them both in the backs of their heads.

"Not so loud," he warned, jerking his head at some of the humans walking not too far away. Both of his friends pouted and apologized in unison.

Prussia didn't take long at all to recover his usual stance. "So I was thinking- everyone was, actually. Why did you ever quit jousting?"

England bit his lip, awkwardly rubbing the back of his head. "My… heart just wasn't in it anymore," he lied feebly. Prussia snorted.

"Likely story. Look, I know you still got it in you. That you still have a passion for the joust." He balled his hand into a fist here to illustrate his point. "I'm sure I'm speaking for the entire continent of Europe when I say you should come back."

Now England brought his gaze up from the ground. "I don't exactly think I can suddenly restart my entire career out of nowhere."

"Come on!" Spain chimed in, his grin brightening. "Just _one _more tournament."

"_Oui, _I would also like to see you participate again. Even if only once," France agreed, tilting his head slightly. England only wished he could prevent the blush that arose to his cheeks. He feared that any argument he had would come out sound ridiculous or whiny, so he just stayed quiet and shook his head stubbornly. Prussia gripped his shoulder as if they were old friends.

"Like Tonio said, just one tournament! That's all we want to see you in. If you feel your passion come back, you can go back to competing like a legend. If not, you can vanish again," he insisted. England crossed his arms, lifting his chin slightly. There was no way he'd cave under their pressure…

"_S'il vous plait? _For _moi?"_ Something about the gentle pleading of France's tone made England's entire stature crumble. He let out a heavy sigh.

"Fine, fine…" he agreed reluctantly. "One more. I'll joust in a tournament _one more _time."

* * *

_~Author's Note~_

_I haven't proofread this, so excuse any mistakes... I'm not that fond of this chapter anyway, but I'd say it's pretty important._


End file.
